


Seven Days

by fancyday



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyday/pseuds/fancyday
Summary: Sherlock, John and Mycroft spend time in hospital after the explosion in Baker Street inThe Final Problem. Each chapter represents one day of their stay.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tereomaori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tereomaori/gifts).



> Written a while ago for tereomaori's birthday.  
> I'm not a native speaker, so please feel free to point out any errors:)

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,  
And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancell’d woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanisht sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er  
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.  
_William Shakespeare, Sonnet XXX_

__

__The first thing Sherlock realised was that the room was too cold. John was not going to like this._ _

__He felt he should open his eyes. But it was not easy, and he decided to find out what he could without them._ _

__The room was too cold. It smelled of disinfectant and bandages. Hospital. That explained why he was wearing a t-shirt he did not know._ _

__He knew why he was here. The last thing he remembered was, after all, jumping out of a closed first floor window to escape an explosion. John and Mycroft? He strained to catch the sound of breathing. The air conditioning was loud._ _

__He opened his eyes._ _

__"Last one back, Sherlock. You owe us a drink."_ _

__"Hello, John."_ _

__"Ever the slow one, brother mine."_ _

__"Shut up, Mycroft."_ _

__They were here, John lying in a bed next to the window with the blanket drawn around him, Mycroft sitting on the bed facing Sherlock’s. He looked ridiculous in hospital clothes._ _

__"So. You okay, Sherlock?" asked John._ _

__"As I am in hospital I’m assuming I’m not. I haven’t checked."_ _

__"Check, then."_ _

__Sherlock moved his toes, feet and legs, which was fine, then his torso, which felt bandaged and brought pain. His arms were all right, his hands were cut and passing them over his face and neck he concluded these were in a similar condition. That had been the glass. There was a burn on his collarbone. His head ached._ _

__"Shallow wound to the chest, burn on the clavicle, cut hands, neck and face, headache," he announced. "What have you got?"_ _

__"Sherlock, I know about your physical condition. I wanted to know how you’re feeling," said John._ _

__"Fine. How do you know my physical condition?"_ _

__Mycroft smiled wrily. "I tortured the information out of the tragically incompetent hospital staff."_ _

__"He didn’t really. I checked a couple of minutes ago," John supplied._ _

__"You look ridiculous in hospital clothes, Mycroft."_ _

__"I am painfully aware of the fact and have already sent for clothing for all of us. Most of you wardrobe, Sherlock, will, however, not have survived, I fear."_ _

__"Coat?"_ _

__"The coat remains intact. Apparently your landlady had taken it away for washing."_ _

__"I think it’s immortal or something," John remarked._ _

__"Good. Now, what have you two got?"_ _

__John sighed. "Mycroft’s sprained his ankle and’s got several lacerations, including that pretty one there on his forehead, and I’m about as cut as you and managed to break three ribs. You missed out on your own, by the way."_ _

__"Broken ribs? How many?"_ _

__"One. Managed a more graceful landing than me, apparently."_ _

__"If you’ve broken a rib, how did you check on me?"_ _

__Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Doctor Watson refused any assistance and managed the procedure using a fine assortment of choicest swear words."_ _

__"Stubborn, John."_ _

__"Look who’s talking."_ _

__Sherlock realised that he was smiling. It was good that they were here._ _

__He looked at them. Mycroft looked altogether strange with a wound on his balding head and out of his suit. Apart from that he appeared unruffled._ _

__John was pale and sweating slightly, probably from his excursion to Sherlock’s bedside, and his face and hands gave the impression he had been assigned a role in a pirate movie. Judging by how tightly he had wound the blanket about himself, he was also cold. Sherlock had known it was too cold. John liked warmth, perhaps a relic from his time in Afghanistan._ _

__A nurse came in. She was too friendly for people who were neither drugged nor in shock, and uncomfortable with their stares: Sherlock and Mycroft’s scanning, John’s critical. She brought them breakfast. Sherlock used the opprtunity to ask for another blanket. She left, confused._ _

__"Are you cold?" John frowned._ _

__"You are."_ _

__John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shrugged._ _

__"Well, I will leave you for a moment. I have government business to attend to," Mycroft put in, getting heavily to his feet._ _

__"You’re in hospital, Mycroft. No one can expect you to-"_ _

__"I may be in hospital," Mycroft interrupted, "but no one need ever now that, do they now?"_ _

__And he strode out of the room, the dignified effect somewhat lessened by his sprained ankle._ _

__Sherlock shrugged. He had things on his mind._ _

__"When we’ve put 221B back in order, John. Will you move back in, with Rosie?"_ _

__John smiled at him. "Course I will. No point leaving you to fend for yourself, is there? And you’re welcome to stay with Rosie and me until the flat is habitable again. If you don’t mind being woken twenty times a night, that is."_ _

__"Sleeping’s boring. Actually, living with me again might be an advantage for you, this time. I can take care of Rosie at night."_ _

__"I’m really not sure if that’s a good idea."_ _

__"It’s an experiment, then."_ _

__John looked up, laughing quietly. "Of course it is."_ _


	2. Day Two

Sherlock was lying on the bed. He had not spoken since yesterday. He had said _good night_ then.

He found it impossible to talk. All words were meaningless. He did not know if he ever meant what he said. He was so deep in thought that talking would have been like falling.

"Sherlock." John from the other bed. Mycroft was busy somewhere being the government.

He did not answer. He had told John it was going to happen. No reason he should sound worried. 

"Sherlock."

It had happened before. John had not made a fuss. But there were good silences and bad silences. The good silences came from thinking, working on a problem, from a wonderful flow of thoughts that must not be interrupted. The bad silences came from deep inside. From finding no words, feeling mute and distant. From layers upon layers of thought that sprang into existence, one on top of another, faster and faster. Sherlock’s thoughts did not spin. They multiplied until he thought about what he thought about what he thought about thinking.

It was a bad silence. His eyes did not see, they registered, and his ears brought a dull hum of reality. 

"Sherlock. There are good silences and bad silences, you know."

There had been ice on the river last week, and gulls had perched on it. It was thin and broken. John should not have known about good and bad silences.

"I’m getting the feeling this is a bad one. So if I can help."

As if. He did not know. He was close by now.

"Stop it, Sherlock."

He thought people lived behind a veil. The veil muffled and softened everything to a vagueness. Sometimes he wondered if the veil was there to keep them from cutting themselves.

"Move, look at something, remember where you are. Back to the simplest layer. Or your simplest layer, at least. Not hard."

Sherlock looked at John, aghast. How had he found out from behind the veil? He saw John, heard him, and then moved his head to look at him, and the world was back.

John smiled. Sadly. "Took you by surprise, did I.You talking again?"

Sherlock looked at him. Words had become a possibility again. He did not know how wide open his eyes were. " _When to the sessions of sweet silent thought_ ," he said.

"What?"

"Sonnet Thirty."

"Shakespeare? Well, you were certainly silent. Fine again?"

John cared.


	3. Day Three

Gradually, a kind of routine was established. They all woke about the same time in the morning. Mycroft then proceeded to escape their room armed with various laptops and mobile phones, pretending the British Government was not currently hospitalised. John and Sherlock mostly kept to their beds. They did not talk about this. Mycroft would leave in one or two days, but they were likely to stay for seven days.

Mycroft made the nurses nervous. John was charming to them all, chatting and asking them about their medical education. Sherlock manipulated those he needed and did not think too much about the others. 

Molly visited with Rosie in the afternoons. Molly was worried. John was only worried that Rosamund Watson might one day just turn out to have a somewhat unconventional notion of normality. Sherlock thought that was all for the best. The government was particularly busy when Molly and Rosie visited.

"You know, I think your daughter might be influencing government decisions," Sherlock stated during dinner, when Molly and the baby had left, leaving John uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean?"

"When Mycroft left, I distinctly heard him order an immediate meeting of a committee on the Korean elections that were quite unimportant yesterday."

John laughed."Well, Mycroft certainly doesn’t seem to be very fond of Rosie. But then I guess he’s not very fond of anyone except you."

"Mycroft detests me."

"You don’t really think that."

"I won’t admit to anything else."

"Right."

"Mycroft remembers Euros."

John had been dreading this subject. "Mm."

"Do you think he’s emotionally attached to her?" Sherlock put aside his plate.

"I should think so. In a way. I’m fond of Harry." John frowned. "That doesn’t count as dinner, Sherlock. You’re losing weight." He was not ready to talk about Euros. He was worried.

"I don’t like hospitals."

"I realise that, but starving yourself won’t get you out of here. You’re meant to get better. And I know you’ll fall asleep, and that’s quite appropriate, and no one will mind. No one will even notice."

"Mycroft will."

"Mycroft will notice and he won’t mind. He’ll just be glad he doesn’t have to argue with you for once." John smiled. "I really don’t think he’s up to it."

Later, when the meeting of the comittee on the Korean elections was over, the sight of Sherlock’s sleeping form on the bed presented one more question the government needed to deal with. 

"Has he eaten, then, Doctor?"


	4. Day Four

On the fourth day they made a plan.

They needed to ensure Euros was secure.

"I am aware that this sounds less than amiable, but it is the only way we have of taking care of our little sister," Mycroft told them. He was going to leave tomorrow.

John knew what he felt. He remembered the day he had brought Harry to the clinic. Admitting defeat, as brother and doctor. Betrayal. Relief. Every time he had called, she had turned on Amy Winehouse’s Rehab and not said a word. He still felt sick when he heard the song. 

"It’s okay, Mycroft, you’re doing the right thing."

"I know I am, Dr Watson, or else I wouldn’t be doing it."

"Hang on, weren’t you the guy who kidnapped me and asked me to spy on Sherlock?"

"How do you want to do it?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Do what, brother mine?"

"We need to break into Sherrinford."

Mycroft gave an annoyed huff. "That is virtually impossible."

John could practically see Sherlock think _challenge accepted_.

"If my little sister can get out I can get in."

"I refuse to believe Euros left Sherrinford."

"That will not make it untrue. John saw what he saw. And if Euros is what you say she is, we had best make certain."

John turned to look at Sherlock, wincing softly from the movement. "You have a plan, Sherlock, so please tell us what it is."

Sherlock smiled at John. "You will love it."

"I presume that means I will hate it," stated Mycroft.

"Oh, I don’t know. You’ll be allowed to intimidate people as much as you like."

And he explained his plan.

John and Mycroft were temporarily struck dumb.

John looked at his best friend doubtfully. He took a deep breath. "Sherlock, you are aware that we are actually planning this, I mean, really looking for a solution?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Anyone with a better idea is welcome to present it." John looked at Mycroft. Mycroft looked at the floor.

John sighed. "I guess _you_ ’ve got about a dozen better plans but you’re just not telling us because none of the others involve you pretending to be a pirate, Sherlock."

"Don’t complain, John, you’ll get to be a pirate as well."

"And have I understood correctly that, as the abducted victim of two such fearsome pirates, I shall choose my disguise freely?" Mycroft inquired.

John looked at him, realising where this was leading. "Not Lady Bracknell."

"I must say, Dr Watson, I find it rather harsh -"

"Not Lady Bracknell."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and looked at John and laughed. His laughter was so genuine and so light-hearted that John realised it had been a long time since he had heard Sherlock laugh. Or laughed himself. He smiled, and soon the small hospital room rang with the laughter of three grown men looking very much forward to a bit of piracy.


	5. Day Five

Mycroft left in the morning.

Sherlock had lots of memories of hospitals.

When he had been a small child, he had received a laceration on his forehead. He remembered his mother crying, and Mycroft coming along to the hospital. There had been a doctor and dull blue cloth. There had been a hole in it, and the doctor had put his hand through it and moved his fingers and then made Sherlock peep through it. He did not recall pain, or crying. He remembered the doctor telling him he would have to come back to remove the thread from the stitches, but he did not remember coming back. The thread, he thought, had been blue as well. That was an odd colour for stitches.

At another occasion he had talked loudly about another patient. His mother had reprimanded him. He recalled a sensation of burning shame. A broken leg had been involved. He thought of Venice, and Murano glass, and the question whether gold or silver was better. A playground and red hair was another association. Sherlock knew how they were connected, but he did not talk about it.

From yet another visit he could remember nothing except a child’s blurred face and eating sausages. He now sometimes wondered if the child had been Euros.

Once he had pulled on a string that caused a sort of emergency call to the nurses. His father had had to run and tell the staff that everything was all right. Disgusting bags and cannulas containing bodily fluids.

At another time, someone had said a medical term incorrectly. He remembered not correcting them, half proud and half ashamed. 

There were images of John and of Mary, and Janine, and also of Charles Magnussen, though that had not really been in hospital at all. Just the canteen. And a rather interesting climb out of a hospital window.

There were paintings, flowers, roses and sunflowers, the kind of bright, cheerful yellow that was most depressing. And the smell. And grey plastic. Revolving doors that were too slow, made for the sickly and the lame. Gossip. People looking so pale.

Then there was Culverton Smith, and John’s cane, and a smashed door, and ugly hands around his throat. Not your everyday idea of hospital, that, Sherlock mused. Drugs, too.

Bart’s did not count. That was work, not a hospital, and he rarely ever saw much more of it than the laboratories and the morgue. And the rooftop.

During the last years, hospital had been 221B. John had always taken care of everything there, at home. Funnily enough, John did not seem to like hospitals all that much himself.

Or maybe he just did not think they were right for Sherlock.

"Do you like hospitals, John?"

"Two more days, Sherlock."


	6. Day Six

The sixth day was devoted to licking their wounds.

Sherlock hated it when people took care of him. He hated it when he admitted that he didn’t feel well. He hated not admitting it and being discovered. He disliked being alone when he was ill, and he disliked asking for things and talking about his health. He hated sleeping during daytime. He hated voices growing distant and hazy. Rooms seeming to shake, visions blurring, and everything being muffled and softened by tiredness. Somehow, the sensation made him think of zebras. He did not know why.

It was raining today.

It was wonderful that John did not fuss. He looked, and told Sherlock what he thought, and forced him to do things when it got too bad. He also usually knew things without Sherlock having to talk about his body.

Sherlock, on the other hand, could be quite insistent in taking care of somebody once he had made up his mind to stop being angry. Illness made him feel revulsion, and contempt. Even if he knew it was genuine. 

His approach to taking care of someone was admittedly rather theoretical: He just thought about every situation that was likely to arise and what could be done to avoid or ease any inconveniences that would occur in these situations. John was the only person he had ever really taken care of. It was usually John who did the caring, after all.

Sherlock‘s burn had not looked like skin at all at first. Then it had turned an ugly, wet yellow. The rims had gone red, and now they were closing in around the burn itself, encircling it with red, strangely bare blank tissue that lacked the usual patterns of skin. It had also gone dry. The edges stood out slightly.

John invariably knew when something was wrong. Unlike Sherlock, however, he simply stopped asking if Sherlock did not want to talk.

Still, he knew.

Today, he knew that boredom and constant aesthetic torture from the hospital furniture and thinking about Euros and the detested sensation of being unwell combined with the presence of all the doctors and nurses Sherlock did not know were becoming too much.

So John came over.

Mindful of four healing ribs, he lay down next to Sherlock in the narrow hospital bed. He slid his arm beneth Sherlock’s back.

Physical contact was difficult. Sherlock did not like it. Usually. He hated being touched by strangers. They repelled him, and he could feel their touch on his skin for hours afterwards. It felt sordid and made him hate them. He often did not like John to touch him, either. It made him angry. He avoided accidental touches. But sometimes he liked John to hold him. When he was tired or alone, or sad. Then he demanded contact, just coming up to John with outstretched arms or tugging at his hands, or John knew anyway. 

Today, John was right to come to Sherlock. Sherlock felt warmth and skin, and everything became infinitely simpler. He felt relieved. As though there had been a problem he should have solved but couldn’t, a problem which was now John’s responsibilty, and John would know what to do about it.

"Okay?"

"Thank you."

"I so don’t care if anyone comes in."

"Neither do I."

"You never do. Enjoy the last night of Rosie-free sleep, Sherlock."

The rain had subsided. 

"And you, John."


	7. Day Seven

"We’re leaving, John!"

"I know, Sherlock, stop running around, we need to get our stuff first, you’ll be feeling terrible tonight if you don’t stop running around-"

"Come _on_ , John-"

"What do you want me to do? I _told_ you, we need to get our stuff, and then we’re leaving in an at least sort-of-normal manner. We’re not running, for example."

Sherlock loved the way John tried to keep him on the ground. There was no hope of success, of course, but it was nice of him to try. "What do we do when we get out, John?"

"You make it sound as though we’d just escaped a life sentence in prison."

Sherlock laughed. John smiled at him. It was nice to see him in such high spirits after yesterday’s helplessly black mood. "I suppose we’ll dump our stuff at my flat first, and then we can shop for your clothes, and then we’ll get Rosie from Molly. By the way, we should give Molly and Mrs Hudson something for helping so much."

"Balance of probability: chocolate. If you want to try for something more creative, though, Mrs Hudson has recently developed an interest in Zumba. We could buy her a CD. And Molly is going to see an opera next week, and she hasn’t got earrings to match her necklace."

"I won’t even ask how you know all of that. Are we in a position to give Molly jewellery?"

"Well, someone should."

John laughed. "Right you are. Fine, then we’re getting that stuff too before we fetch Rosie. And then we’ll have a few quiet days to prepare for the insanest plan ever."

"We’ve just spent quite a lot of quiet days in hospital!"

"No one ever gets well in hospital. I’m not breaking into any prisons with you in this state. You need to wear someone else’s clothes, remember?"

"So?"

"Well, if none of the Sherrinford staff are as self-destructive as you, their colleagues will notice if they suddenly lose a few stone."

"Fine." Sherlock threw back his head, rolling his eyes. "Fine. A few _more_ quiet days, then, and then we’ll break into Sherrinford, and then we’ll rebuild the flat."

"Yes. Don’t look so worried, we’ll manage. We’ll be back in Baker Street in a couple of weeks."

"That’s good."

"I’d say so. And now come on, we’re leaving. I’m looking forward to Rosie."

"So am I."

"You are?"

Sherlock looked indignant. "Of course I am. She’s my goddaughter, she’s your daughter, she’s brilliant."

John smiled. "Come on, then."

And they left the hospital side by side, their heads held high.

Whatever was coming, they were ready.


End file.
